


Tantalus

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autofellatio, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:03:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes what you want isn't just out of reach after all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tantalus

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Lacuna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenlacuna) for the incredibly apt title, and to Lacuna and [Provocatrixxx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/provocatrixxx) for the speedy beta. Anything that doesn’t make sense is entirely mine, not theirs.

The text comes while John is at the supermarket, staring at the cucumbers of all things.

_John. Have you ever engaged in auto-fellatio? -S_

John squints at his phone for a moment, wondering if Sherlock has fallen victim to the dreaded auto-correct. His texts are usually impeccable, but there’s a first time for everything.

His phone buzzes again, startling him out of his musings.

_Or, as the monkeys at the Yard so succinctly put it, can you suck your own cock? -S_

Well, at least now there’s no question about what Sherlock is asking. John blinks, trying to phrase a suitable reply in his head. He’s about to start typing when the phone buzzes a third time.

_Hurry, John. A case depends on it. -S_

Sighing, John types out as quick a reply as he possibly can.

_I have no idea, Sherlock. I can’t say I’ve ever been interested in trying. -J_

_Come home then, and try. -S_

John’s not sure what it says about him that he actually debates abandoning the grocery shopping to go home and help Sherlock with whatever ridiculous puzzle he’s trying to solve. He sucks in a deep breath and squares his shoulders.

_I am going to finish buying groceries, and then I will come home and we can discuss this. No promises. -J_

He mutes his phone and stuffs it in his coat, staunchly avoiding the compulsion to check it again a few seconds later. He eyes the display of cucumbers warily and decides he’s not as interested in them as he was before the texts came in.

***

When John gets home an hour later, arms full of groceries, Sherlock is pacing the lounge. His red dressing gown is billowing out behind him like a cape, and John chuckles. He drops the bags of food on the counter and turns to face Sherlock, who has crossed the flat and is now looming over him.

“So what’s this all about then?” John asks, raising a brow and leaning against the counter, arms folded protectively across his chest.

“Those idiots found a body in a hotel room, bent all in on himself. They’re stating that he choked on his own penis, but that’s impossible.” Sherlock pauses, as if he’s parsing thoughts in his head. “Isn’t it? Someone strangled him and forced the body into that position. It’s the only logical answer.”

The hesitant way Sherlock asks the last question causes a familiar flutter in John’s chest. There’s something so oddly endearing about him when he admits he’s unsure of something. But it’s not enough to counter the absurdity of the situation.

“I’ve heard rumours about people... usually celebrities. And you hear murmurs about it in the Army. But I’ve never known anyone who actually admitted they’d even tried it, let alone were capable of it.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, studying John. “Will you try it?”

John rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as he tries to come up with a reason to refuse. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s not the weirdest thing Sherlock’s ever asked him to do. And he can keep his clothes on, all he has to do is see if he can bend properly. With a resigned grunt, he pushes himself away from the counter and walks into the lounge.

“Sherlock, I will do this on the following conditions.” John raises a hand, and lifts one finger as he enumerates each condition.

“One - I get to keep my clothing on. We’re just seeing if someone can bend this way.”

Sherlock nods.

“Two - No photos.” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John cuts him off. “None. You can see for yourself, and then form a hypothesis based on that. And three - no telling anyone how you solved this. Not Greg, not Molly. Nobody.”

Sherlock purses his lips briefly, and John can tell he’s debating the relative merits of the conditions versus the experiment itself. Eventually his shoulders sag slightly and he nods.

“Alright, John. Your conditions are reasonable.”

Shaking his head, as if he still can’t believe he’s doing this, John lowers himself awkwardly onto the sofa. He lies down, fidgets a bit, sits up again, and eventually settles on propping his head and shoulders against the armrest.

As soon as John attempts to bring his knees up over his head, there’s a sharp jolt of pain emanating from his left shoulder. He curses and lets his legs fall.

“Fuck, Sherlock. My shoulder can’t handle this. This was a terrible idea.” He sits up, groaning and rolling his arm in an attempt to loosen the stiff joint.

“But what about my results?”

John glares at Sherlock. “Try it yourself. You’re probably more bloody flexible than I am anyway.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen excitedly. It’s as if the idea hadn’t even occurred to him.

“I have no serious interest in the fellatio aspect, but that’s no reason I couldn’t just check to see if the position is possible.”

“There you go, problem solved.” Rolling his eyes, John starts heading towards the kitchen. He’s interrupted by Sherlock’s voice, strangely reedy with panic.

“Wait, John. Where are you going?”

“I was going to finish putting the groceries away and then probably going upstairs to read for a bit. Why?”

“What if I need assistance?”

Rather than arguing, John sits down in his armchair and stares at Sherlock, who is now perched on the coffee table. “What could you possibly need my assistance with?”

“I obviously won’t know until I need it.” The look on Sherlock’s face is one John is intimately familiar with - a mixture of impatient irritation and strange neediness. He realises that watching Sherlock contort himself into some absurd pretzel is probably going to be far more entertaining than the novel he’s halfway through and decides to stay.

“Fine, Sherlock. I’m not going anywhere. Now go on. Put your weight on your shoulders and try to get your hips up above your head.”

Never one to do things in half-measures, Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa and immediately curls in upon himself. Normally, anyone in his position would look completely absurd. Legs in the air, curly hair mussed against the sofa cushion, and his shirt - tight to begin with - all twisted up and pulled taut across his chest. Instead of looking ridiculous though, Sherlock’s managed to look scandalous and debauched. The pale skin peeking out from the collar of his shirt is just asking to be bitten, and there’s a flush of red across his cheeks that John knows is simply from exertion, but it makes Sherlock look blushing and eager. John shifts uncomfortably in his chair, hoping Sherlock’s too distracted to notice the early stages of his arousal.

He’s distracted from his train of thought by Sherlock’s irritable snapping.

“This isn’t going to work, John. My trousers are in the way. They’re completely altering the variables.”

John clears his throat. Before he even has time to imagine anything inappropriate, Sherlock has unfolded himself from his contortion and started to undo the flies of his trousers.

“Sherlock!” John gulps, looking at the floor, the ceiling, the kitchen. Anywhere but at Sherlock. “What the hell are you doing?”

He can almost hear the shrug and the eyeroll. “Removing the altered variables. The victim was nude when they found him.”

After a brief but fruitless mental argument with himself, John turns his gaze back to Sherlock. He’s stepped out of his shirt, trousers, and socks, but has mercifully kept his pants on. Not that they’re doing much to obscure anything. Charcoal grey stretch cotton boxer-briefs, conveniently moulding to every curve of his arse, highlighting the slight swell of his prick. Even flaccid, it’s impressive. John wrenches his eyes away, staring at Sherlock’s kneecap. Nice and innocuous. Nothing remotely arousing about a kneecap.

It’s too late though; he can feel his own cock thickening, well on its way to a rather mortifying erection. Mercifully, Sherlock still doesn’t seem to have noticed. John shifts in his chair again, attempting to hide himself from view.

When John looks up, Sherlock is back in position, his cotton-clad cock mere inches away from his lips. The pose is throwing all his muscles and tendons into strong relief, and watching him stretch his mouth open slightly, tongue running along his lower lip as he strains to close the gap proves to be too much for John.

A low groan escapes John’s lips and he realises his hand is in his lap, idly palming his prick through his jeans. The noise captures Sherlock’s attention and he whips his head around to stare at John.

“This still isn’t working, but I’ve determined what the problem is.” With an impossible wriggle, Sherlock somehow works his way out of his pants. Due to the angle he’s at, his penis flops downwards, unfurling from the nest of dark curls at its base. The laugh that escapes John’s lips is high and pitchy, bordering on hysteria.

“Oh?” John manages to squeak out. “What is the problem then?” He clears his throat, trying to get his voice back into a more normal register. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, which looks utterly adorable when he’s upside-down, but says nothing.

“I need to maintain an erection. I am fairly certain the increase in length, as well as the stiffness, will enable me to at least get my lips around the head.”

The mental picture Sherlock is painting proves to be too much. John lets his chin drop onto his chest as his cock throbs uncomfortably against his jeans as he continues to stroke himself through them. He licks his lips and swallows, his throat dry and sticky.

“And how do you propose to go about that?” John’s not entirely sure why he’s even asking, and suspects the answer is going to make him even more uncomfortable.

Sherlock turns to look at him, gaze sharp and alert. His eyes are so piercing John nearly forgets about the fact that he’s naked, twisted into a tight C-curve, with his bare, soft penis so visible, so vulnerable.

“You’ve had a fairly substantial erection for a while now. While this isn’t something I do regularly, I have come to terms with the fact that I find you both intellectually and aesthetically pleasing, and I suspect watching you masturbate would help me. Besides, I’m naked already. It’s not as though you removing your jeans would really alter the dynamic in the room.” John boggles at Sherlock’s voice and expression. He’s acting as if this is the most normal suggestion in the world.

“‘I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours?’ Sherlock, what are you, twelve? This isn’t what normal friends and flatmates do for each other. In fact, we are so far removed from _normal friends and flatmates_ right now that if _normal friends and flatmates_ were London, we’d be in bloody Antarctica.”

Sherlock looks curiously lost, and bites his lower lip slightly. Watching it swell up against the tension of his teeth makes John shiver, and he feels a trickle of sweat run down his spine. Sherlock stares at him.

“Should we stop then?”

John sighs. He’d be lying if he said the idea of having a bit of a wank in front of Sherlock wasn’t making him even more ridiculously turned on. But what about later? What about when this experiment is all over? Are they just going to go back to the way things were? With a deflated expression, he starts undoing the zip on his jeans. It’s not like he’s ever been able to say no to Sherlock, no matter how absurd the request. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“No, Sherlock. It’s a little late for that.” He runs his tongue across his lower lip to stifle the moan that’s trying to escape as his throbbing cock springs free of his pants. He’s imagined hundreds of sexual scenarios involving Sherlock, fantasised about the first time they’d see each other, the first time they’d touch each other. None of them have come remotely close to the reality of the situation, but somehow John isn’t surprised. Life with Sherlock is never predictable.

John had been worried about his arousal flagging when he exposed himself, but his prick is rock hard and deeply flushed. Clearly his subconscious is more than okay with this unexpected display of exhibitionism. The fact that Sherlock is still staring at John like he’s an incredibly rare specimen or some sort of prize to be won is certainly helping boost his confidence.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before bringing his hand up to his mouth and thoroughly licking his palm and fingers. John hears Sherlock making an interested noise, but suspects that if he opens his eyes, he’ll lose his nerve.

Wrapping his slick hand around his shaft, John starts sliding up and down slowly. He’d had a girlfriend once who liked to watch him; he understands the difference between a quick-and-dirty wank to get off in the privacy of his room and putting on a show for someone else. He keeps trying to tell himself he’s doing this solely for the benefit of Sherlock and his questionable experiment. He knows he’s lying to himself.

John dives in head-first and begins stroking in earnest. He lets his head drop onto the back of the armchair, breath coming in ragged gasps. He pulls and tugs on his cock, thumb sliding over the tip and spreading around the pooling pre-come he finds there. He shudders, fingers stroking along the raised veins of his shaft. He’s not sure whether it’s the audience or the fact that he hasn’t had a decent wank in over a week, but everything feels fucking incredible right now. As he pulls his foreskin up over his head and twists lightly with his fingers, he hears an unearthly moan.

Startled, John opens his eyes. He’s entirely unprepared for the picture before him. Sherlock’s completely hard, rocking his body in a desperate attempt to get his mouth closer to his own prick. His hands are sliding up and down the back of his long, pale thighs, and something about that hedonistic, unnecessary gesture makes John’s cock throb.

A sudden shift in weight and Sherlock’s body rolls forward, and he finally makes contact. John lets out a low moan and tugs his testicles gently away from his body. They’re already pulling up close to him, and he’s not ready for this yet. The sight of Sherlock’s tongue, moist and pink, darting out from between those bloody lips and successfully flicking over the glans of his own impressive erection is just too much for John to bear. He bucks his hips up and grips the base of his cock tightly, quelling his impending orgasm for the moment.

Sherlock’s tongue coils one last time around the bulbous head of his cock before a low whine escapes his throat and he lets his back and legs fall onto the sofa. His hands are absentmindedly stroking the length of his torso, fingers circling his nipples and the base of his prick in a way John finds thoroughly mesmerising.

“John...” Sherlock’s voice is ragged and breathy. “I think this experiment has been a failure. There’s no way someone could... maintain the depth and... force necessary to asphyxiate... themselves.”

Nodding, John clenches his hand around his aching cock. He supposes he should probably put it away, but Sherlock is still lying there naked, his own erection arcing prominently away from his body. He’s unsure of what he should do, but John can’t look away.

“So, um... are we?” John laughs nervously. “Should we, uh, stop?”

The look Sherlock gives him is utterly unguarded, and bordering on panic. Suddenly all John wants is to wrap his arms around Sherlock and somehow bring him to a completely shattering orgasm. Mind made up, John tucks himself into his pants with a wince and crosses the lounge in a few wide steps.

He shoves the coffee table aside with his foot and squats down in front of Sherlock, so that their faces are nearly level. Up close, Sherlock’s eyes are completely disarming. Pupils blown wide, surrounded by a ring of impossibly pale green. The flush is back on his cheeks and throat and this time John knows it’s arousal, not exertion.

“Sherlock, I am going to kiss you. And then I am going to take care of you.” Sherlock looks down at his own erection, as if it’s confusing him, and John laughs. “Yes, that’s what I meant. But you understand that this changes everything, right?”

John’s not sure what sort of response he’s expecting, but it certainly isn’t for Sherlock to wrap his long hands around either side of John’s face and pull him in for a blistering, desperate kiss. His lips are soft, as plush as John had imagined, but his tongue is sharp and determined. He’s kissing John like a man starved his whole life. There’s a pang in John’s chest when he realises this is probably the case. He smiles against Sherlock’s lips and kisses back with equal vigour.

Sherlock finally pulls away and stares into John’s eyes, and the look on his face answers every question John had. He nods in silent acknowledgement and leans down to pepper a line of feather-light kisses along Sherlock’s throat.

As his lips and tongue trail down Sherlock’s neck, across his collarbone, and down the expanse of his torso, John’s left hand reaches up and gently surrounds Sherlock’s erection. He’s almost startled by how hot it feels in his hand. How absolutely _right_ it feels. Encouraged by the needy whine that escapes Sherlock’s lips, John tightens his grip and gives him a few good solid strokes.

Sherlock is so responsive, so warm under his hands and mouth, that John has somehow gotten even harder. With his free hand, he reaches down and frees himself from his pants again. His cock is slick and blood-hot, and he moans in relief at the contact.

John’s lips find their way to Sherlock’s nipple, tiny and hard, and he purses his lips around it. As he flicks his tongue over the pebbled nub, Sherlock gasps and thrusts his hips upward, sliding his cock through the tight ring of John’s fingers.

Taking pity on Sherlock, John releases his nipple and sits down properly on the floor, so that his head is level with Sherlock’s lap.

Being this close to Sherlock’s erection, the scent of his arousal is strong and heady, and John runs his tongue across his lips in anticipation. John’s hand on his cock quickens its pace, almost without him realising it.

“Sherlock, are you sure?” He looks up, only to see Sherlock staring down at him with a mixture of impatience, fondness, and desperation.

Nodding up at him, John gestures at the sofa cushion. “Sit up.” Sherlock does as he’s ordered and John settles between his legs. As he leans forward, he exhales slowly, warm breath ruffling the dark curls of Sherlock’s pubic hair.

“Please, John. Please...” Hearing Sherlock beg like that sets off something in John’s brain, something primal and possessive. Without a second thought, he takes the head of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. The taste is bitter, sweet, salty. There’s a strangely poetic thought running through John’s head, how the taste of his cock is reflective of Sherlock as a whole.

Sherlock tenses slightly at the contact, but John strokes soothing circles across his abdomen, and within moments he’s relaxed back into the sofa. It’s not long before John hears him whimpering quietly, rocking his hips as if he’s running on instinct.

John smiles at Sherlock’s reaction, lips stretching around the ridge at the base. He hardens his tongue against Sherlock’s fraenulum and begins sucking purposefully. It’s been a very long time since John’s had a cock in his mouth, and back then it had been awkward and uncomfortable, unsatisfying for both parties. Somehow, this time, things seem to be much more natural, much more fluid.

As he tightens his lips around the thickest part of Sherlock’s shaft, he runs his thumb over the head of his own cock. Sherlock is so eager and responsive under him, bucking and whimpering, the long muscles of his thighs quivering, that John is sure this isn’t going to take long for either of them.

Sherlock stops gasping and moaning long enough to blurt out a question “Are you still... still touching... ngh, are you touching yourself John?”

Wistfully, John pulls away, letting Sherlock’s erection slide off his tongue. He glares up at Sherlock, who is peering curiously at him with heavily-lidded eyes.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm?”

“Shut the fuck up and enjoy your blow job.”

Sherlock barks out one completely charming, guileless laugh and lets his head fall back onto the sofa. John takes him back into his mouth and feels Sherlock’s fingers running through his hair. For a moment he’s worried that Sherlock is going to try to force him to go deeper, but the touches are gentle and aimless, sending a frisson of something unidentifiable down John’s spine. He’s fisting his own cock eagerly now, having abandoned any pretense of putting on a show. They’re both eager to come, and John can’t bring himself to draw things out any further.

He begins sucking quickly and forcefully now, and Sherlock’s moans increase in pitch and volume. John swirls his tongue once, twice, around the swollen head and the twitching in Sherlock’s legs intensifies. He feels Sherlock tapping him awkwardly on the shoulder, as if in warning.

“John, oh god... John!”

Briefly, John debates keeping Sherlock’s prick in his mouth but the idea of watching him climax seems incredibly appealing right now. He’s also not entirely sure he’s ready to swallow. Suddenly he’s grateful that Sherlock’s decided to be thoughtful and warn him.

Gripping his own cock, he pulls back and gives Sherlock’s a few quick strokes with his free hand. That’s apparently all it takes to throw him over the edge - within seconds, Sherlock’s arching up off the sofa, his erection twitching violently in John’s grip. Ribbons of ejaculate spurt onto his stomach and drip onto John’s hand, and watching it is enough to send John to his own climax, shuddering into his own fist as his vision goes grey and soft around the edges.

With a sigh, John rests his clammy forehead on the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. In a moment they’ll have to get up and clean themselves off, and then there will likely be an awkward but necessary discussion, but that can wait. For now, there’s nothing he’d rather be doing than sitting right here.


End file.
